The interior of the Serenity Hotel felt like a different world entirely.

Outside, the badlands street was subdued and almost eerily quiet. Inside, the lobby was overflowing, packed shoulder to shoulder with people who only moments ago had been lost in the singer's mesmerizing performance. The sudden clash between Ethan and the woman on stage had shattered that spell like glass, and the backlash was immediate. Hostile stares rolled toward him in waves, sharp and unwelcoming, filled with the kind of malice that came from wounded pride rather than drunken bravado.

"Looking to die?" someone snarled.

"Causing trouble in the Serenity of all places?" another voice barked.

Several more joined in, overlapping threats and curses, but despite the fury in the air, no one actually stepped forward. These were not street punks looking for a quick fight. Every person here was seasoned, cautious, and fully aware of how quickly things could spiral out of control.

Ethan narrowed his eyes, jaw tightening. Perfect. Just perfect. It was starting to feel like trouble actively sought him out. He had come to the black market expecting a clean transaction, get in and get out. Instead, ever since entering the badlands, one complication after another had piled up, and now this spectacle was threatening to explode into something much larger.

If the singer had not launched a sonic attack at him, he would never have responded. He was not the instigator here, no matter how the crowd wanted to spin it. That thought only stoked his irritation.

"So this is how the Serenity treats its guests?" Ethan said coldly, his voice carrying despite the noise. "You use sonic manipulation on patrons, and we're supposed to just endure it? And defending ourselves makes us the villains? Where's the owner? Believe me, if you don't explain this properly—"

He stopped himself just short of finishing the threat. A moment earlier, he had already pinged Shatterstar, which was holding a steady geosynchronous position ten thousand meters overhead. For a brief, dangerous instant, he had seriously considered simply seizing control of this entire black market hub. The Serenity was lucrative, influential, and strategically positioned.

The idea had been tempting, but he had ultimately dismissed it. The black market only functioned because it was chaotic and unregulated. Trying to impose order on it would strip away its very purpose and value.

Even so, the thought crept back in now, uninvited and persistent. From the middleman's memories, Ethan knew that Henry, the owner of the Serenity, was a fixer with deep connections. Not the biggest name in the badlands, but influential enough that crossing him would inevitably trigger a confrontation.

For the briefest second, Ethan imagined giving Shatterstar a single command and watching these coordinates turn into scorched earth.

But he needed this place.

The sheer volume of gold he had to move could not pass through legitimate systems without drawing catastrophic attention. The Serenity, perched in the lawless badlands, was one of the few hubs on the planet capable of handling transactions of that scale. Destroying it would only create a vacuum and a long list of new enemies.

Still, swallowing an attack without responding was not in his nature.

'Fine,' he thought grimly. 'If it comes to it, I'll just start kidnapping every rich bastard in this town and bleed them dry. They're all rotten anyway.'

Ethereal was already diverging from what he remembered from his previous life. Timelines were accelerating, events overlapping unpredictably. He needed resources quickly, and converting his gold into usable power was essential. If that meant playing hardball, so be it.

He drew breath to finish his threat.

Before he could speak, Blackfin, who had been standing beside him, suddenly grabbed his arm and tugged hard at his sleeve. The older man's grip was urgent, almost desperate, and his eyes locked onto Ethan's with a frantic intensity.

Ethan paused, surprised.

Leaning in close, Blackfin whispered, "Big Boss, I've already contacted Henry. He's on his way down. Let's not escalate this. We're here to do business, not start a war." His gaze flicked nervously around the lobby, as though every face in the crowd was a loaded weapon.

The behavior was strange enough that it caught everyone's attention.

"Hey, Little Black," Blackie said cheerfully, clearly pleased with himself for inventing the nickname. "You got enemies in here or something?"

Blackfin rolled his eyes at the name but did not have time to respond.

From off to the side, Voss let out a quiet, amused snort. "Enemies? That's an understatement. The better question is which person in this room isn't his enemy."

That made even Ethan arch an eyebrow. Blackie, on the other hand, looked downright delighted.

"Damn, Little Black," Blackie laughed, sweeping his gaze over the crowded lobby. "You're not exactly terrifying, but you sure know how to make friends."

There had to be at least a hundred people present.

Blackfin did not argue. He simply wore an expression of deep, bone-weary resignation, which was answer enough.

Ethan's curiosity sharpened. How exactly did one man manage to offend nearly every black market heavyweight in a room like this?

"Well, well, if it isn't Blackfin," a cold, aged voice cut through the murmur. An elderly man in elaborate silk robes stood slowly, his posture dignified but his eyes brimming with venom. "I hadn't planned on coming for you today, and yet you walk right into my sight. Good. That Felisian girl I auctioned for almost a hundred million? You'll pay for that."

Another voice followed immediately. "Blackfin. You dare show your face here?" A thin, scholarly man adjusted his glasses with deliberate precision. "The ancient Nine-Tripod Cup that mysteriously resurfaced in the US museum. That was your doing, wasn't it?"

A third man, broad-shouldered with scarred knuckles, cracked his fists. "You hide behind your little fortress where I can't touch you. But here?" He grinned savagely. "You won't leave the badlands alive."

Before Ethan could even process the situation, the lobby erupted. Accusations flew from every direction, layered with death threats, demands for compensation, and vows of revenge. Every word was aimed squarely at Blackfin.

As Ethan listened, a picture began to form, and it was not what he had expected. This did not sound like the crimes of a greedy mercenary or common thief. It sounded like something else entirely.

The Felisian girl was almost certainly a rare mutant or sentient being. In other words, a slave. The artifact returned to the US was a priceless cultural relic that never should have been in private hands. Again and again, the pattern repeated. Blackfin had taken things from these people and returned them to where they belonged.

He was not a criminal in the traditional sense.

He was a vigilante.

"Ha!" Voss suddenly roared with laughter, slapping his thigh. "Black, now I understand why I could never stand you. You're a mercenary pretending to be some kind of knight-errant. Your head must be worth a fortune across half the bounty boards in the world." He looked genuinely delighted by the chaos unfolding.

"You don't get it."

Three voices spoke at the same time.

Voss's laughter cut off abruptly. He stared at the speakers in surprise: Blackfin, Ethan, and Victor.

Blackfin froze, stunned by the unexpected chorus. Then he looked at Ethan and Victor, and something in his eyes shifted. Suspicion gave way to something warmer, almost relieved, like a man realizing he was not as alone as he had believed.

Victor met Ethan's gaze briefly before turning fully toward Blackfin. He reached out and gave the older man's shoulder a firm, grounding pat.

"You chose the right path," Victor said quietly, his voice rough with conviction.

Memories stirred in his mind, fragments from old military intelligence briefings about the badlands and its many power players. Blackfin had always been listed under a peculiar designation: Foreign Asset, Potentially Alignable. Even back when Victor had been a young recruit, Blackfin was already active, already infamous in certain circles.

Now the man stood at forty-nine, a year older than Voss, his hair streaked with gray, his face lined by years of conflict. Yet the stubborn set of his jaw remained unchanged, unbroken by time or pressure.

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